Why I Killed Myself by SandPrincess13
by Straight thru the Heart Fics
Summary: Every night, I choked myself over the neck of the bottle; I gulped down Tic Tacs in place of sleeping pills, trying to lull my body into believing that it was dying and rejoicing in waking the next morning, bathed in disappointment and guilt.


**Entry for the Straight thru the Heart Contest**

 **Title:** Why I Killed Myself

 **Summary:** Every night, I choked myself over the neck of the bottle; I gulped down Tic Tacs in place of sleeping pills, trying to lull my body into believing that it was dying and rejoicing in waking the next morning, bathed in disappointment and guilt.

 **Pairing:** Edward, Bella

 **Rating:** M

 **Word count:** 6,950

 **Disclaimer:** The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

 _Every night, I choked myself over the neck of the bottle;_

 _I gulped down Tic Tacs in place of sleeping pills,_

 _Trying to lull my body into believing that it was dying_

 _And rejoicing in waking the next morning, bathed in disappointment and guilt._

 _A punishment fit for my deceptive ways,_

 _A closeted catfish in reality,_

 _Breathing in invisible air and believing in the presence of a man_

 _Whose indifference had driven me to madness._

 _They thought my putrid breath sickly sweet—_

 _A perfume that blurred the vision of hideous flesh._

 _When I broke their heart, unintentionally, of course,_

 _They showered me with praises fit for a queen._

" _You're just one lab accident from becoming a Nazi super-villain._

 _And believe me, you are Nazi. "_

 _He was a mad boy: all alluring words, crazy jealous and,_

" _I'm afraid you'll freak out if I tell you how in love with you I am."_

 _And he freaked me out._

 _I ran, as fast as the fucking wind, crushing everything that tried to stop me._

 _Him included._

 _He saw right through me, but he never had the facts right._

" _So, this is it?"_

 _That had been it._

 _He dreamt of a day when he could "swim through my veins like a fish in the sea."_

 _After hundreds of "Don't stand so close to me,"_

 _And stolen glances inside the library,_

 _I never meant it, naive girl that I was...am..._

 _I just wanted to fulfilll my fantasy,_

 _Of listening to the Police and exchanging stories of broken hearts and burdensome dreams._

 _And it crashed down on me, that I had done it—_

 _Broken his dreams to fulfilll my fantasies._

" _I didn't think I could hate you more than for your love of_ Twilight _." He breathed._

" _I hate you for doing this to me, but you are so beautiful," he said._

" _I wish I could say something that would destroy you, but nothing can destroy you... You are not real."_

 _And I believed him._

 _That night, I stared at the cursor blinking over the blank page._

 _I used him as fodder for my compulsion to breathe words into myself, to feel for a few moments._

 _I guiltlessly fed myself lies, believed myself a goddess and rose to glory,_

 _Inched deeper into the realm of Madness as I bled make-believe words tinged with reality._

 _I finally started understanding that I didn't give a shit, that pretending to feel nothing_

 _Was better than living inside a dream._

 _Ruthlessly, I pursued, one after another._

 _Innocent lambs led to my pious demonic altar,_

 _Where I cut out their hearts and witnessed the last beat of life shuddering through them,_

 _And I gained no pleasure from it,_

 _Just a dull ache as the veins bled out and mingled with the pile of ash accumulated on the floor,_

 _Body and soul both crumbled, destroyed by my foul sense of self-preservation._

 _The same preservation that pushed me to gravitate toward a boy whose pale fingers called to me_

 _Seven thousand eight hundred and fifty one kilometres away from reality,_

 _Exchanging paper clip rings and Morse code love letters, slithering into my heart,_

 _The last moment before I break it._

 _Epic books could be written on it, failed promises and promiscuous disguises._

 _I could play the evil witch that cursed all men and lured them in._

 _I would be the Demoness that tried to corrupt the hero, set him on fire and drowned him._

 _I would be the passing peril, an obstacle to reach the final goal:_

 _A meaningless taint on the wide, spotless sea._

 _My name would turn into a war cry, bleeding edges gathered together to destroy me._

 _I shall remain stagnant, waiting for my next prey as the world goes by, slowly fading._

 _And this insignificance reminds me... of the boy who did not want to see,_

 _And I clutch the bottle and take a swig. I look down at the abyss and blink._

 _I pour the pills and gulp them down. I close my eyes and gently lean in._

.oO00Oo.

Back in the sociology class I took in the second semester of undergrad, the very pretty and opinionated professor had told us that love, or any type of intimacy, is socially ordered, culturally learned, and linguistically mediated—that we live in a society where "choice" is pre-determined through socio-culturally circumscribed views that have been passed down from one generation to the other.

Even back then, I had no lingering ideas of everlasting love, or even romance, to be honest. I had always been curious as to how relationships worked and how they didn't. I'd seen my parents struggling to tolerate each other, but secretly proclaiming their unconditional love in the absence of the other.

I equated a person's love life in terms of demand and supply, assigning price and quality of the person, commodifying them in the love market like every other person on the planet. It felt good to fit into a type: the one with commitment issues.

I don't think anyone realized how far gone I was until I called off my wedding a month before the date. It wasn't a decision I made one fine morning and went with it. I had tortured myself over it, tossed and turned in my bed at night, and wondered if I was doing the right thing.

Twenty-six days before D day, I sent out the ominous email.

 _Dear Denis_ , it began. What followed was pure heartbreak. Three years as an English major and two in mass communication had taught me to soften the blow of my words, but nothing had prepared me to fashion " _I don't know why I let this go on. I don't love you; I don't think I've ever felt anything of that sort with anyone_ " into something glossy and beautiful.

It was not an arranged marriage, far from it. I'd met him one evening when I decided to open an account on _okcupid_ for the fun of it. I had hoped to make friends and ended up sending him pages worth of thoughts in pretty Calibri font. I'd been typing at four in the morning, hours before semester finals, and he was rolling around in his apartment in Paris, seven thousand eight hundred and fifty-one kilometres away from Kolkata, my hometown.

I left the site with a friend a week later. He fell in love with me somewhere between discussing Bollywood movies and terrorism. When we had the money and the jobs to meet, we did. I loved his cutely ugly dog and his worn out couch, but not him. He was my comfort, someone I could tell what I was thinking without fearing judgment. He understood everything; he was patient. He was everything I never thought love was.

I believe I cried when he flew out to Kolkata to meet me one last time, give us a chance. We said goodbye. And I understood when he tried to work things out with me, pushing away everybody so that he could take care of me, understanding why I never told him I didn't want to spend my life with him. I had no answers.

A year later, I browsed through our conversations on Facebook and missed talking to him. A week later, I got a message from him. He had gotten a new job. He wanted me to know. We spoke briefly. He was dating someone, a French girl whom he met at an office party. I was happy for him.

I drank myself to sleep that night.

.oO00Oo.

It was a perfectly chilly winter morning. My grandmother was dying on the other side of the city, and I was blissfully peeling peas, while seated beside the window.

My days of eating off my father's dime had stopped when I called off my wedding. I realized no one really wanted me in their life, and that I was pretty toxic to be around. The epiphany had caused some family drama that I don't like recalling. I don't remember crying much, but my mother did throw a fit when she tried to defend my actions by saying, "That's just how she is."

It was a good day. I understood that my mother had brought me up all those years having full faith that I would disappoint everyone who knows me.

Eye-opening, to say the least.

I spent months after that repaying my dad for all the down-payments he'd made, and I was glad I'd wanted a small wedding. Despite what my father said, I didn't want monetary issues to add to all the resentments they had against me.

Over the years, Maa tried to get me to move back into the family house, but obviously, she failed.

Coming back to the chilly winter morning.

The serene ambience of said morning was characterized by a craving for _koraishutir kochuri_ and a newspaper spread across rumpled bed-sheets. To make things better, my new neighbor, an American from Lala Land, was busy doing a horrid cover of Elvis' _Always on my Mind_.

I wasn't complaining much because I was softly humming along. I knew for a fact that he would stop soon enough or break into another song in a matter of minutes.

This happened every morning.

The man was a masochist. He insisted on taking cold showers at ungodly hours and would scream songs to lessen the pain of the water hitting his skin. The entertainment was pure gold, and the sadist in me giggled every time he shrieked the first few lines of the song.

" _If I make you feel second best... Girl, I'm sorry I was blind!_ " he cried. I would think he was dying by the way he sounded, but he kept doing the private shows, so I didn't worry about him any longer.

" _You were always on my mind!_ " I joined in without thinking, and I couldn't fucking stop. I used to pride myself on having a fuck-awesome voice, but that moment? It was not my proudest.

He didn't even stop! We did this weird duet thing... twice, and I think I heard someone from the lower floor snickering. I even found myself on my feet, doing a very nice boob-jiggly dance.

" _It's now or never... come hold me tight... kiss me my darl—_ "

"Oh, for fuck's sake. Shut up!" I screamed. One song was enough.

 _Let me have some peace, you American asshole,_ I thought to myself.

I was rather proud when he actually stopped singing. I decided I would consume double the amount of _koraishutir kochuri_ to celebrate.

I adjusted my boobs in my bra, inconspicuously checked if the old dude from the opposite building was peeping in, and then resumed working on the peas.

Breakfast tasted divine.

.oO00Oo.

There was a dude on my doorstep, and I was pretty sure I didn't know him. I never drank in public, so I was sure I had never fallen into bed with him and forgotten. From where I was standing, I didn't think I would mind.

"What are you doing?" I asked, my arms crossed over my chest. There was a good chance I was unconsciously doing it to make my boobs look nice in my t-shirt.

 _I have a weird fascination with my boobs. I like to fondle them every chaance I get, unless I find a dude to do it for me._

He turned around, seeming shocked. For a moment, I just stared at him.

 _Yes, I would definitely let him fondle my breasts._

"This is my apartment?" he said, and he was right to sound a bit confused at the end because it was definitely not his apartment. The American asshole was either high or pretty exhausted to miss the name plate on the door.

"No," I grunted, shoving my hands into my bag and searching for my keys. I might have pushed him aside a bit smugly to reach the door and open it.

"I should call you a stalker for having the key to my apartment, but I think you're incredibly hot." _Yup, definitely high or exhausted._

"It would do you good to take some basic lessons in reading," I quipped as I tapped on my name on the front door.

"Oh," was hid ingenious reply. "Duet girl!" he exclaimed suddenly, making me jump.

"Come on in, asshole." He scurried in as I dropped the bag and headed into the kitchen. "Would you like something to drink?"

"Coffee?"

"Sure. Do you want some vodka in it?" I asked playfully.

"Hit me with it, duet girl." Boy was he making himself comfortable in there. The bowl of peas (still resting on the bed) seemed to have caught his eye. He plopped down beside it and put his hands in the bowl and started playing with them.

A man after my own heart.

 _Oh, I must resist the charm of this man..._ I sighed dramatically, going all Victorian maid on myself.

"Peas remind me of nipples," he said suddenly. Silence followed. I would have laughed, but the expression of pure horror on his face made me hold on for longer.

Must. Hold. Breath.

Must. Not. Laugh.

"Not yours, of course," he added quickly. "I haven't seen them—"

"—I want to!" He swore. "I'm sure they'e very pretty..." His eyes were wide as he stared at me.

"Yes, they are." _Maintain pokerface._ And _then_ I broke into fits of laughter. He cracked a smile before chuckling to himself.

"Yeah... sorry about that," he mumbled.

"Long day?" I asked. He nodded. "Figured as much when you were trying to jam your key into my door." His lips twitched. I'm going to want to deny it, but I think mine did too. "That sounded wrong."

I prepared his coffee in silence as he stroked the peas. When I handed the mug to him, he smiled and pulled his fingers out of the bowl. His eyes shifted toward the side table. I wondered what caught his eye, the mess of wires and post-its on it, or the array of Tic Tac bottles.

"Tic Tac?" I offered, producing one from my pocket. He spared me a glance.

"What flavor?" he asked, suspiciously.

"Orange."

"That's the worst flavor!" he argued, disgusted.

"Don't hate on the orange, you..." As you might have guessed, I couldn't come up with an insult that did not make me sound prejudiced. Well, who cares for political correctness, right? "I bet your favorite is _mint_."

"First of all, it is not mint. It is tropical berry. Secondly, mint is a thousand times better than _orange._ " He may as well have stuck his tongue out at me like a spawn in kindergarten.

"So, your favorite _is_ mint," I teased. "I am judging you right now." _Because that is what I do best._

"Who is that in the photos?" Confused, I followed to where he was looking. I nonchalantly turned back to him and vomited it out.

"I practically left the dude at the altar." I scoffed. "Best prank I have ever played!" I told him with a wink. I reached out for the bottle of Tic Tac in his hand and took it from him. He was still looking at the picture, so I popped the lid open and gulped the little pills down like a pro.

 _I think I'm addicted to these._

 _How much have I spent on Tic Tac supplies in the past few years?_

 _Maybe I could save the money and buy a house with it. That would be so cool._

"He's sort of cute," he commented offhandedly. "I don't understand why there's a weird collage made out of the picture of the ugliest dog in the world, a dude's finger with a paper clip on it, and a room with dirty laundry everywhere."

"Nostalgia and a sense of pride in the fact that I crushed his heart under my dirty feet." We remained silent after that. He even helped me clean up my apartment.

"Hey, do you want to stay over for dinner?" I stopped thinking about what I had just said. "I have too much food," I tried to defend.

"Sure." He shrugged.

One word: _Fuck._

.oO00Oo.

His name was Edward Cullen, and he enjoyed my cooking. He had a particularly hard time pronouncing my name.

"So, wait. Your name is Barnamala?" He scrunched his brows as he tried to say the letters right. He failed, and all that came out was gibberish.

"Almost." I giggled as I slid one more _kochuri_ onto his plate. I didn't mind one bit that he was ravenous. Better yet? He was left licking his fingers.

I had never been a fabulous cook, but I kept myself alive and often mixed weird things together to feel like a chef. Those nights usually ended with me ordering food online and then waiting patiently as the exhausts in the kitchen destroyed all signs of the ruins of the dish I'd tried to create. I loved the nights when I cooked the things Maa did. Somehow, I managed to make them just like she did. I think it was a boon, a sort of love for the recipes that were passed down from one generation to the next. To see someone else enjoy it made my heart flutter and climb up my throat.

"Do you have any nicknames?" he asked. He seemed rather disgruntled by not being able to say my name.

"Bell," I whispered with amusement and then plopped down beside him on the dining table.

"After the temple bells?" I shook my head.

" _Bell Jar_. My friends thought it suited me. I kept it."

"You have unusual friends." Suddenly his smile turned wistful.

"Do you miss home?" I whispered, not wanting to break him out of his thoughts. I believe I was staring at him, and I wanted a few moments longer to fully take in how... pretty he was.

"I do," he replied. His eyes focused on me, and he offered me a lazy smile. He probably didn't know that I was nosy as shit and would ask him questions until I came off as stalkerish or knew the name of his great great maternal uncle who died sitting on the pot.

"Why are you in Kolkata, of all places?" He seemed surprised by the question.

"Why, you seem awfully dissatisfied with the city for someone who has lived here all their life." I gave him a disapproving look. "Well, I'm a manager, and the company I work for is opening their new branch in Kolkata. They want me to oversee the progress until everything becomes stable."

"So you earn quite a lot," I pushed. He nodded suspiciously. "Why are you living in a crappy apartment if you can afford a better place?" I asked him incredulously. Spending money was a good thing. Did he not know?

"The company I work for is paying me handsomely, and they think I'm living in a four star hotel." My eyes widened. "I know it's wrong, but it's funny and they're used to my pranks." He merely waved it off.

"Tomorrow, dinner is on you," I blurted out. When the surprise wore off, he threw his head back and laughed. I wanted to lick his Edward's apple.

 _Sue me for being a_ F.R.I.E.N.D.S. _fanatic._

"Sure, darling. What do you want for dinner?" he asked, his eyes all sexy and smoldering.

 _I don't even know how that's supposed to look, but boy does this man get the look right. Internal bleeding... lubricating?_

"Baked fish and lasagna for dinner and pizza for supper." I moaned.

"Are you sure you should be eating that much cheese?" he teased.

"Are you calling me fat? I have nice tits because I'm fat, darling, and believe you me, I'd rather die a satisfied woman than without some lovely food in my stomach." I huffed, feeling exhausted by the long speech I just gave.

 _I should really work out._

 _Nah,_ I thought a second later.

He blinked a few times, rather dumbly, if you ask me and then opened his mouth to speak. "Why do we always keep getting back to your tits?"

"Because they are fabulous?" I quipped.

"It's more than that," he said defensively.

"Of course it is. You want to cop a feel, don't you?" I asked him smugly.

"They're just lumps of flesh. It's the idea of them that make them so pleasurable. Once you think about the purpose they serve, you don't look at them the same." I did not expect him to say that. I was expecting a blubbering mess in its place.

"We are all lumps of flesh—just big blobs, lolling around on the earth, wasting space. It doesn't mean that boobs aren't significant. They are nice to hold. Their purpose is not only to feed the young, but also for pleasure. You are assigning a sexist narrative to a female's body, and dude, that is not cool." I narrowed my eyes at him, waiting eagerly for his response.

"You just made that up as you went, didn't you? You just wanted to say something that sounded smart so you could outdo me." He chuckled.

"Possibly." I grimaced. "Now, let me eat in peace, you boob hater." He continued chuckling as I munched on dinner.

And ladies and gentlemen, there you have it: my mother dearest and her fantastic sense of timing. She had this odd habit of calling me every night to see if I had reached home and what I was having for dinner. I would say it was annoying, but she was my Maa, and I didn't think I'd ever fallen asleep without hearing her voice. However, she had an awful sense of timing. She'd either call me when I was trying to stuff my face with food after a long day or when I'd rush to the toilet to take a dump. She had no shame and sometimes continued the conversation for extended periods of time where I was left freezing on the _chamber pot_.

I picked up the phone, of course, and mumbled my greetings in garble-language. My mother knew me well enough to talk me into behaving appropriately or remembering my manners. I was never one for conforming to social norms.

 _Fuck 'em, right?_

She kept chatting as I finished my food, and I noticed Edward gaping at me. I cocked my head questioningly, asking what was wrong, and he broke into a laugh. I didn't think anything of it at first, but then the panic set in. My mother became silent on the other side of the phone, and that, my dear friends, was never a good thing.

"Who is that?" she asked me, her voice more serious than I had heard in a while.

"The neighbor," I managed to choke out. _What? She sounds dangerous. Might as well take precautions before putting my hand in the lion's den._

"The foreigner who has poor taste in music?" Mind you, this conversation took place in Bengali. Otherwise, Edward would have probably been out of the door... or not... No way to find out.

"Yes, Maa. Don't worry. He's not a psychopath," I rolled my eyes, giving him a mischievous smile as I said the words. He looked a bit confused and slightly amused because he knew I was talking about him.

"I'm not worried about you!" she exclaimed. My head perked up in shock. "The poor boy will get his heart broken!" she berated me.

"Maa!" I protested as she went on to list all the grievances she had against me. About how unattached I was to everything and how she did not want me to suffer through another relationship I forced upon myself.

So, I told her what I thought honestly.

"I was attached. I always am. I've learned my lesson." I spared a glance at him. "I won't let it roll too far; I won't lead him on, I promise." I sighed, said my goodbyes, and ended the call.

He seemed puzzled about my shift in mood when he left for his own apartment. I was just glad that I had some time to myself. I just wanted to wallow and let the guilt set in. Some nights, the neck of the bottle and the Tic Tacs were not enough to help me grieve.

That night was one of them.

.oO00Oo.

Edward might've been a hopeless singer, but he was a romantic at heart, _and_ he could cook.

I teased him about how cuddly he got when he watched chick flicks. I saw him cry during a particularly _sentimental_ scene in this _incredible_ Bollywood movie—notice the sarcasm in my tone, and I pinched his cheek and scoffed at his soft-hearted bull crap.

Thankfully, I had convinced him to stop taking showers at night so he would no longer disturb the two-month-old's sleep next door. The spawn screamed bloody murder half the time; I didn't need it at night, too.

Our duets were improving, as well.

Sometimes he broke out into Taylor Swift songs, even though he hated them. I didn't let him know that I saw him go through my playlist one evening while he was over, no doubt realizing that I was secretly in love with some Swift numbers. He'd been screaming them ever since.

I made him cook more often than not. Especially after he confessed that all he does at work is boss people around while he has his feet propped up on the table. The low wage worker in me revolted and took it out on him by coercing him into serving me. He looked like he thoroughly enjoyed it, too. He looked cute in my red apron and entertained me while I watched him cook.

He twerked like a pro. I felt the need to take a few lessons from him.

.oO00Oo.

I took the day off work. I called the boss and told her my brains were fried and that I needed to breathe. She understood. She always did. I was honest with her; she respected me for that. And I brought her big contracts and kept her clients on cloud nine.

I deserved a break from time to time.

I convinced Edward to join me on my day out. He was wearing a pair of worn out jeans and a t-shirt with holes in it. I gaped and let him hold my hand.

I hated holding hands. My palms got sweaty, and my arm stiffened up. I don't know how it happened, but from my teenage years, I developed an aversion to being touched. I didn't tell people about it because they assumed the worst.

Edward didn't ask. His grip was soft, and he never commented on the moisture on my palms. I trembled the whole time we walked down the roads of the city in the wee hours of the morning.

Sometimes, I slipped my hand out of his and clicked pictures of old buildings and dirty ponds. Sometimes I clicked pictures of his face, his hands, just his smile. He wanted a picture of us. I couldn't bring myself to tell him I hated featuring in pictures, that I felt like they doomed people into hating each other forever and ripping apart paper to keep bad memories from flooding into their mind. I didn't tell him that I liked him and didn't want the same to happen to our friendship.

That was when I realized that he didn't think that we were friends. He... _liked_ me.

I walked faster. I tucked my hands into the pockets of my hoodie and talked to him animatedly, hoping he wouldn't notice.

He noticed.

.oO00Oo.

I gave him a taste of Kolkata that day. I taught him how to dance on the street while people watched, some with smiles on their face, while others looking annoyed that we were blocking their path to the metro station. We procrastinated, laughed with the street vendors who sold us the unhealthiest food on the planet. We sat on the footpath and on the trams and travelled from one part of the city to another. I didn't show him the clubs and the pubs, the malls and the restaurants, just the things that he needed to see.

Later that day, we went to the college I studied in, and we sat on the ancient stairs. We spoke to professors who remembered the girl that laughed when people cried over dead people and always came late to class. He introduced himself as the man who would steal me away; some of them smiled at him wistfully. They had gotten the wedding card from years ago. They knew me better than he did, or maybe he just knew a different version of me, one I didn't know myself. I wished I could find out exactly who he thought I was. I suppose I would be beautiful in his eyes.

I couldn't look at him when he asked me what was wrong. So I simply shook my head and dragged him to our next destination.

The poetry slam.

I liked to listen most days, but sometimes, I just needed to vent by speaking. That day was one of those. So I wrote page after page, needing to confess my crimes, and I dragged him along because he would play prosecutor. I wondered if he would understand that I spoke truth when I wrote, that the line between the narrator and the author was blurred in my words.

I wondered who else would understand what I was trying to say, that I was not simply speaking because I wished to participate, just to be heard. By that one person.

.oO00Oo.

The host was someone I had known for a long time. She was a lover of slam poetry and felt the need to put the love of it in the hearts of every person she crossed. Somewhere down the line, she succeeded.

I saw familiar faces in the crowd when I went up on stage. I saw faces of people whose hearts I'd broken, those I had let down, and some who still believed in me and not the truth of my words. Edward listened intently.

" _Every night, I choked myself over the neck of the bottle..._ "

His face crumpled as he untied the knots, followed the clues: the Tic Tacs, the empty bottles, the meaning of those songs.

As I stood there in the spotlight, I swear I saw realization flash across his eyes. I could see the exact moment when he thought of it... " _She's going to run away again._ " I only gave him my words, confirming his doubts, telling him how hopeless I was in his pursuit of me, that I would never be able to give him what he needed.

The crowd roared with applause, all except for two people: Edward and the man at the end of the room. I escaped to the washroom and sat with my face in my hands.

I heard voices filtering in through the door.

" _Are you involved with her?_ " I heard him ask. I remembered him well. He was a comic book nerd who fell in love with me. I knew he found himself in my poetry. I did quote him. I wondered if he was here to scream at me for rubbing his immaturity in his face.

" _Do I know you?_ " Edward asked, irritated.

" _No, but I know her._ " He huffed. " _She's... You don't want that._ " I wondered if Edward thought the same. I was running away anyway. Why should I care?

" _I know what I want. Now, leave._ " I heard shuffling.

" _I thought she was guarded,_ " he started suddenly. " _So I wanted to play the savior. It took me time to realize that she's just a sadist—a forced narcissist, but a pathological sadist. A Nazi in disguise,_ " he concluded. I bit my cheek as I waited for Edward's reply.

" _I'm sorry. I don't think you know her at all. If you're stupid enough to think she is a narcissist or a sadist, I'm glad she didn't choose you. You would reduce her brain cells._ "

I broke down. Minutes later, I heard him barge in. Edward pulled me out and kissed the shit out of me.

"I love you," he told me. "Let's go make you some spaghetti and meatballs." I wrapped my arms around his waist and cried. I'd never been more scared in my life.

What did I know of love? What if it was all a mistake?

I told him as much.

"Then we'll make the same mistake and learn from it. I don't fucking care about any of them. I care about you, and I don't want you to waste away." He kissed my forehead. "Even if it means we don't end up together."

I had been wrong. There was one thing that scared me more than his love: his absence.

I told him everything. We shifted the alcohol and Tic Tacs to his apartment.

He held me as we slept that night.

.oO00Oo.

He met my parents. They joked about how I was going to leave him. He encouraged me to flip them a double bird because they had no clue what it meant—typical Indian parents.

.oO00Oo.

 _I'm falling in love with myself._

 _I think it's because he loves me._

 _He tells me little things that I never thought about. He thinks my nose is cute. I used to think it was weird._

 _I have ears like elves, but he thinks they make me look magical because "that's what you are, Bell."_

When I asked him what he was doing, he told me he was making me fall in love with him. He was so cocky about it. I didn't know what he meant.

"What does that mean? Telling me I'm pretty might get you into my pants, you asshole, but not into my heart. Maybe you should cook more often?" I suggested, swatting his ass just for the heck of it.

"Woman, don't commodify me and succumb to gender roles!" he said in a nasally voice, which I assumed was a lame attempt at mimicking me. I rolled my eyes. He snickered when I pinched his arm. "Hey, Bell?"

I turned to look at him.

"My mother says that falling in love is the easiest thing in the world." I didn't tell him what I thought about that statement. "She says you just need to fall in love with yourself first."

And that, right there, was the moment I knew that I loved him.

I loved him, and I couldn't keep it inside me.

It burst out, like lava from the mouth of a volcano, gushing and spilling. He laughed, held me, and told me that I was the silliest (but most perfect) woman on the planet.

.oO00Oo.

" _You'll be my soft and sweet. I'll be your strong and steady. You'll be my glass of wine; I'll be your shot of whiskey..._ "

He was stuck on two songs.

" _Are you gonna kiss me or not?_ "

Every day.

Even at night.

I thought he was asking me to kiss him. So I kissed him a lot. He didn't complain, but he did keep giving me weird looks.

Everything fell into place when I heard the doorbell one evening and opened the door. He was on one knee with a ring in his hand. He looked struck as he stared at me. I kept glancing between his face and the ring.

"Oh, shit," he said. I held in a snigger.

"Are you proposing?" I asked, my arms crossed over my chest. He shook his head vigorously. "What are you doing, then?" He gulped.

"This was lying on the floor. I was just picking it up!" He leapt up and then shifted from one foot to the other.

"Looks expensive," I commented as I ushered him in. "We should probably ask around to see whose it is." I pulled a chair out for him and asked him to sit. "Maybe we should call the police?" His eyes widened comically.

"No!" I gave him a pointed look.

"Are you proposing?" I asked again, a small smile playing across my lips.

"Would you say yes if I were?" he asked, hopeful.

"No."

"Then no, I wasn't proposing," he whined. I giggled as I kissed him on the cheek.

"Maybe in a few years." He nodded, dejectedly.

.oO00Oo.

 _Denis called._

 _He is getting married._

 _I don't know what to think._

 _He asked me to speak at the reception._

 _Edward is buying tickets._

 _I don't want to go, but I think I need this._

 _I want to say yes to him._

 _I love him._

.oO00Oo.

"Eat something," he insisted as I played with my food. We were inside the airport, waiting for our flight to start boarding. I was nervous beyond consolation. How would I face Denis, my best friend whom I practically left at the altar?

"We should go back home," I told him. The food was going nowhere. I'd probably vomit it out if I crammed it in.

"I don't think they'll let us out."

"We can tell them there's a family emergency," I rationalized. He paid me no mind.

"Bell, sing with me," he said suddenly, " _I'm an Albatraoz..._ "

Fuck this.

Fuck that.

Fuck everything.

People stared as we sang. I'd be surprised if they didn't enjoy the off-tune singing.

"Hey, Edward?" We were about to board, and he tipped his head toward me. I didn't know what to say, so I asked him the first thing that came to my mind. "Do you still have that ring?"

He tried not to look interested.

He nodded.

"Give it to me," I told him as nonchalantly as I could manage.

"Gladly." He smirked, shoving his hand into his pocket. He produced the ring in no time and slid it onto my finger.

We boarded the flight as a newly engaged couple.

It was our little secret.

.oO00Oo.

Denis embraced me and introduced me to the " _love of his life._ "

He and Edward sized each other up. They became friends within an hour of meeting.

.oO00Oo.

For some reason, Denis' bride loved me. She hugged me. She was perfect.

The wedding was beautiful. Edward held my hand throughout the ceremony.

I lost the slip of paper I'd shoved into my purse half an hour before I was going to make the toast.

"I've forgotten what I was going to say." I chuckled nervously. "So I'm going to make shit up as I go." I breathed in deeply.

"This could have been our wedding if I hadn't been such a wreck all those years ago. You _are_ getting married, and it's not to me. When you first told me that you met her, I was crushed. I hoped she wasn't pretty, but god, she is beautiful. I felt insignificant and unworthy and guilty that I had crushed your heart when you laid it in front of my feet." I let out a humorless chuckle.

"I've missed you, Denis. I wanted to be there when you fell in love with her, stay awake at night and hear you fussing about her little quirks. I'm sorry I made you think you couldn't talk to me.

"He was mine once, but now, he is yours. You make him happy. You light up his world, and he hangs on to each and every word you say. You are the most beautiful woman in the world to him. Remember that.

"Remember that you know him better than anyone else. Remember that when he thinks you're going to make the same mistakes I made, or when he drives you insane and you want to leave. Trust yourself to know why he is doing it. Hold his face in your hands and tell him..." I took a moment to clear my throat. "Tell him that you love him and you will never leave him. Remind him that you are not me, and you will not make the same mistakes I made. You will let him hold you until he knows you could never leave him. Work through it, find yourselves, and remember that your love is invaluable. You found each other after breaking over yourselves and gathering the pieces that were left of you.

"I sound like I love him. I really don't." I shot him a wry smile. "We have both moved on. He is with you, his beautiful wife, and I am with my asshole of a boyfriend—"

"Fiancé," Edward interjected, impatiently.

"Sorry, fiancé." I planted a kiss on his cheek. "And I love him. I want to see a day when you tell your children about the crazy lady who refused to marry you, and how she was the reason why you met _her_. Tell them their mother is whom you love most and not to fear love. God knows I did, and it took me long enough to understand. And someday, I'll tell my spawns about the crazy lady their dad married and how she danced over the broken hearts of her ex-lovers."

Edward whispered an 'I love you' in my ear. I smiled.

"I planned on saying five sentences." The crowd laughed. "I do have a bad habit of being over-dramatic." I shrugged. "To the bride and groom, and to the many fights they shall overcome in the near future." I raised my glass.

Denis smiled. His bride cried. Edward grabbed my hand as if he would never let it go.

.oO00Oo.

Years later, I told our kids about the crazy lady their dad married, and how she danced over the corpses of her lovers. I also told them that she was dead.

* * *

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